Chapter 8 Flo
I’m in.
My deposit has been accepted. The coordinator for the trip called me, asked me a few questions, and just like that, I’m going on a six-month trip around America and Canada.
Excitement fills my body, but also fear, which is new for me. Perhaps I rushed into this. I’ve always been a pretty impulsive person—I get it from my mother—and sometimes act without thinking, but there’s no turning back now. I’m going.
Think positive.
Think positive.
Think—ow.
My thumb throbs. I’m trying to assemble a wooden shelf, but I’ve already slipped up a few times with the hammer.
I’m not a huge reader, but I bought a few romance books at the store earlier to give me something to do other than scroll mindlessly through social media when I’m not feeling particularly creative.
Poppy recommended me a few books that she loves, and knowing her, they’re going to be pretty raunchy.
“You stupid fuck,” I growl at the hammer again, tossing it to the side this time, but grabbing it after realising that this shelf isn’t going to magically build itself.
Then, there’s a knock at my door.
Evan is standing there when I open it, his eyes widening as he takes in the hammer I’m holding. He takes a step back, and his mouth flattens. “Whoa… what are you doing in here?”
My free hand flicks in the direction of the floor covered in wood, nails, and screws. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Making a mess of my floor.” He walks in, and I release a humoured scoff, muttering, “Oh, yes, why don’t you come on in, Evan?” with as much sarcasm as I can despite my upturned lips. He crouches down, humming, and holds out his hand for the hammer, which I reluctantly give him.
“Are you trying to make a… bedside table?” Evan’s eyes slide to the one already by my bed, where a mountain of my skincare sits, now that I’ve officially moved everything in.
“A shelf.”
“I didn’t—Gracie didn’t give you one? Sorry.” The small pile of brand new books on my bed catch his attention, and he picks one up and studies the cover. A shirtless man with glowing golden eyes stares back at him, his long hair blowing in the imaginary wind as hissing snakes rear up for attack.
Okay, so this one wasn’t recommended to me by Poppy, but the… blurb looked interesting.
“Is this your type?”
“What? Fictional?” I smile. “Yes, absolutely.”
“I meant the hair.” Evan’s greys flicker.
Shrugging, I say, “To be honest, I hadn’t really noticed the hair. Just the lack of shirt.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a demon.”
“A hot demon,” I grumble as I pull the book from his grasp. “Stop judging my choice of books. I’m busy, here.”
Evan hums low in his throat, before he picks up the instruction manual I had been reading religiously as if it were a bible, throwing it to the side like it's useless.
“A shelf,” he repeats, shaking his head and chuckling when he picks up my creation.
And by creation, I mean a wonky piece of wood with screws and nails sticking out, and a metal hook embedded into the wrong part.
“You might need those.” I point to the instructions he’s just thrown away, and Evan looks me in the eye before mumbling a quick, “Nope.”
His brows furrow in focus as he gets to work.
There’s something ridiculously attractive about watching a man work on something he’s so sure about.
It’s the way his forearms flex as his hand tightens around the electric screwdriver.
The way he squints down the edge of the wood to make sure it's level.
The way his large, calloused hands swallow the screws and nails.
With his shirt shifting and stretching with every reach of the hammer or screwdriver, I catch sight of the tattoo on the inside of his arm again, and because I’m wearing my glasses, I see the thin outline of a lion’s head. But it’s small. Not very detailed. And drawn in a childlike fashion.
“You have a lion tattoo.” I say it more like a statement than a question.
Evan chuckles. “I’m aware.”
Flicking my eyes in a roll, I join him on the floor, grab the instructions in case I need them, and begin helping with the shelf.
Holding the wood still while Evan hammers.
Gathering the brackets scattered all over the floor.
Picking up the small pieces of splintered wood, so neither one of us jab our thumbs with them.
“Why a lion?”
Evan doesn’t look at me as he says, “For Leo.” He then stands, points to the pencil markings I’d made on the wall to make sure he’s putting the shelf in the right place, and holds it still.
“So, like Leo the lion?”
“Yeah. He drew it. Do you want to screw?”
My face grows rosy, and my grip on the screwdriver goes limp. “What?”
Evan’s head cocks, and his eyebrows pull together. “You’re holding the screwdriver. Do you want to screw it into the wall or should I?”
Filling my lungs with air, I mentally scold myself for how I interpreted his words. “Right, uh, yeah, I’ll do it.”
God, I hope I’m not flushed. All I want to do is laugh out loud at myself for how there was a split second there where I thought Evan was offering something he most definitely never would. I’m pretty sure this man would rather hammer one of these nails into the side of his skull than that.
After screwing my side of the shelf into the wall, Evan takes the tool from me and does the same with his side, and we both step back and admire our work.
“There,” he says, dusting his hands off.
“Thanks for the help. I’m sure I would have figured it out eventually, though. Maybe.” I’m smiling as I speak, unconvinced by my own words. I may be great with a needle and thread, but put a hammer into my palm, and I’m going to look at you like you’re speaking in a different language.
“Sure looked like it.” Evan drags his white teeth along his bottom lip, eyes stuck on me for a few moments longer than I’m pretty sure he wanted them to be, since he scowls and drops his gaze.
My arms fold tightly across my chest when I say, “Have you always been handy?”
“I’m a single dad. I have to be.”
“Well, I suppose football players need to be good with their hands, don’t they?” A snort escapes me, and Evan instinctively flexes his fingers.
“You can’t be a tight end without being good with your hands.”
“I beg your pardon?” I slap my hand over my mouth.
Evan looks confused as he replies, “My position in football. I’m a tight end.”
Okay, I don’t know much about football, but who the hell decided to name that position? And who was it named after? It’s got to be someone, right?
I want to tell him he fits the criteria to be a tight end because I’ve never seen a man with a perkier ass—this man’s jeans definitely work overtime—but I know that would be crossing the line, so instead, I settle for, “I mean, I wasn’t going to say anything about your tight end, but now that you’ve brought it up… ”
That’s probably not much better, though, to be honest. But my tone is humorous.
I’m still sniggering, and to my surprise, Evan joins in, slightly, shaking his head before massaging the spot between his eyes. “On that note, I’m leaving.”
“Why’d you come over here in the first place, West?” I question, leaning up against the door frame with my arms crossed as Evan walks down the porch steps.
“I heard you yelling at the hammer.”
That makes me offer him an awkward grin. “Hmm, I swear, the hammer started it.”
“Whatever you say, Florence.”